


Merino

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Folmarv being Worst Dad, Foreboding, Gen, Present Tense, canon adjacent, little bit of hero worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Isilud meets the newest member of the Templarate, Wiegraf Folles.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Merino

**Author's Note:**

> Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?

His reputation precedes him, even for Isilud, who was a child at the end of the Fifty Years’ War and only heard distant murmurings of unhappy soldiers between adults after morning mass. His mouth is hard and his eyes are old; weary. Wiegraf Folles, the last of the Corpse Brigade, isn’t much more than a handful of years older than Isilud, but in this moment he seems ancient, towering, carved out black oak and then weathered down by centuries of grief.

Isilud watches him step over the threshold of the church, watches him pause, almost imperceptibly, before coming in. Loffrey is leading him, explaining something. Wiegraf’s eyes go from the tapestries, to the altar, and then up to the rose window in the spire, colors muted now in the storm.

Most people, when falling under Folmarv’s gaze for the first time, have the sense to look away. Wiegraf meet’s the man’s eyes, and Isilud marks how the swordsman plants his feet, squares his shoulders, but does not avert his gaze or back away. 

Two sorts of men would fight a lion in its own den: the very brave, or the very foolish. And perhaps a third: a man pursued to the ends of the earth by hunters who have already taken everything away from him. A man with nothing left to lose. One who craves an honorable death by combat instead of one hanging from the gallows in front of a jeering crowd.

That man, a man more alone than any other that Isilud has known, comes closer to Folmarv than most dare and takes into his hands the softly glowing cabochon that he’s offered. The way the light jumps across it as it’s turned in Wiegraf’s hands makes Isilud’s heart jump, makes the matching gem tucked in his shirt hum softly in response.

Wiegraf, leader of men, chooses a party of solely women to accompany him to Orbonne. Isilud is assigned a group of knights as well-- all of them nearly twice his age-- and stands before them while his father tells him to come back with the stone, or not at all. Wiegraf catches his eye and for a moment Isilud glimpses something behind the studied blankness. 

When they ride to Orbonne, they ride together, Wiegraf sitting high in his saddle with the reins wrapped around one wrist, the other hand free to draw his sword. It takes three days for him to speak; when he does, he keeps his eyes on the horizon and asks Isilud when he first lifted a blade.

Isilud replies that he began training at the beginning of his seventh summer. Wiegraf nods, then goes quiet again. The silence has a different texture after that; though Wiegraf’s gaze is ever forward, the set of his shoulders has changed. 

They crest the last ridge, a valley opening up below them and nestled in it is Orbonne, small and unassuming. Wiegraf takes a breath and, almost to himself, murmurs, “If I thought the Father was listening, I would beg forgiveness for what I am about to do.”

“We have the Church’s blessing,” Isilud reminds him.

“Aye. And no use is a prayer that falls on deaf ears.”

Isilud wouldn’t put it past a man of common blood to casually blaspheme just before going into a church, but he’d begun to think different of Wiegraf. Coming from him, the statement is a warning, not an offhand insult to his purported faith. Where they were going-- what they would do-- they could count on no greater power coming to save them at the last, nor did Isilud think that his father would come and plead on their behalf if they were captured by soldiers from any point of the compass.

Wiegraf spurs his mount down through the trees; the others trail after him. Isilud hangs back for a moment, looking back. The air smells of pine and damp earth, churned by chocobo claws. Someone is following them.

**Author's Note:**

> You can help me take my brother to his dream production (Be More Chill) in Chicago by throwing coffee at me! Jaydeefaire.carrd.co


End file.
